starwarsmushfandomcom-20200214-history
RPlog:In Plain Sight
-The last few days have been a whirlwind. The time from learning that Wrista's family was missing to learning their current location - an Imperial re-education camp deep in Coruscant's mid-levels - was barely three days, due largely to the speed with which an old friend was able to provide her with the information she needed... but as she's always said, you can take the senator out of the smuggler, but Del Marx proves nothing quite so much as she proves that you can't take the smuggler out of the senator. In spite of Wrista's note to her commando team that the mission she'd mentioned was nixed by Command in light of the movements surrounding Nak Shimor, there are a full dozen members of said team crammed into the disguised shuttle /Tydirium/ with the twi'lek and her accomplice, one of whom pokes his head into the passenger compartment from the cockpit. "Just been cleared to land, ma'am," the plainclothes-clad Chiss announces, red eyes glowing softly in the dim light. "Skot's looking for any likely-looking speeders to boost while making his approach." Coruscant - or Imperial Center, as it is known right now - is just as busy as ever, the city lights shining like beacons in the evening's dim light. Their target is not far from the spaceport, a mere ten miles out, one of the camps that COMPNOR has out in public view to serve as an example to its citizens. However, it - like all camps - will be extremely well guarded not only by stormtroopers, but by COMPNOR's own elite COMPForce personnel. -Wrista's accomplice is in fact sitting right across from her, knee to knee in the cramped seating that a cargo ship offers troops. Draelis is busy trying to adjust the sleeve that covers his left arm- the prosthetic limb is more aesthetic now, seemingly sleeker and more integrated than the crude contraption it had appeared to be before. Even the color is different- a sleek, uniform steel in tone. The Marine finishes adjusting the last of the fasteners on the sleeve, then holds the bulky hand up and grimaces at the faintly reflective surface of the appendage. "Remind me to pull some gloves from supply when we get back," he remarks, ruefully. He sits back in the cramped seat and rests both hands on his kneepads, the cherry tip of his cigarra describing an arc as it is moved from the left side of his mouth to the right. The Marine wears no rank or patches, but there's no way to hide the 'military' look that a trained eye can spot. Still, he can at least pass as a mercenary for hire or a rogue agent, at best, and so there's that. The other commandos are garbed the same- all military hardware, but nothing on them that would positively identify them as Republic agents. Draelis glances at Wrista. "How you doing, Wris?" he asks in a quiet tone of voice, his words not carrying past sensitive twi'lek ears. -Perhaps unsurprisingly, Wrista has been decidedly unquiet on this trip, most of it spent pacing around the interior of the shuttle like a caged katarn, so much so that at various points she's had several of the volunteers try to tell her to calm down using every one of the nicknames she's picked up during her time in service, all to no avail. But she can't help it-- her family is incarcerated, by ISB of all things, and not only does spaceflight give her the creeps in the first place, but these lunkheads insisted on jumping duty to come with her. She'd been willing to accept that she'd be in trouble for jumping ship to do this(to say nothing of taking Tyderium to do it!), but now a dozen of her most respected collegues have demanded to share her fate for doing so. To say nothing of Vengan, who she should have known better than to even HINT anything to. But it's a little less anxious, now, with landing coming up, and the twi'lek is seated up in the command cockpit for her first time this trip, though she leans against her seat restraints to see what she can of the planet through the transparisteel. Home. It should look somehow different, stained, dirtier for the presence on the planet. Yet it seems nothing changes Coruscant, and Wrista can't decide to be proud or disgusted by it. Vengan's voice draws her attention,a nd she blinks, glancing over towards him, and she flashes a bit of a grin. "Well enough," she says a bit dubiously, before she adds, again, "you shouldn't have come, you know." But she's obviously glad he and the others did. The twi'lek, like the rest of the AWOL Kamino marines, is dressed in unidentifiable clothing, in her case a grey jumpsuit with a pair of low-slung equipment belts filled with harmless odds and ends and a shawl-like half-cape around her shoulders. Her backpack gear is stowed somewhere in the rear of the ship, like most of the equipment. Aside from the shuttle, she was very insistant that noone bring any non-personal gear, hoping to keep the inevitable charges to a minimum. Her eyes travel back to the planet's surface. "Not the way I wanted to come back, though," she murmurs. At the pilot's update, she nods. "Take us in, then. Just like a good little commercial cargo flight-- slow, dumb and happy," she says, then adds with a wry grin, "You know-- fly casual." -Draelis reaches into Wrista's rucksack, stowed under her feet, and fishes a sugarstick from her outside pocket and offers it to the twi'lek. "You couldn't have kept me off this ride," he says, flashing a grin at the woman. "After three days in the Hall, I had to get out and get moving. I think the Jedi were getting tired of me taking up room." There's no mention of rumors about an evening visitation from a lissome human female that ended up with him driving most of the Healers away for some privacy. He takes another drag on his cigarra. "By the way, you and I are off camping in the Loomerer woods, if anyone asks," he says around the smoking cylinder. "And the Tydirium is on a week-long cargo run to Thyferra. We're picking up some industrial-grade toilet paper." He winks at sits back in his seat, blowing a thick plume of smoke up towards the roof of the Tydirium's storage bay. "So kick back, enjoy the ride, and we'll worry about the court martials when we get back. If we get back," he amends, with a careless shrug of his flesh and blood shoulder. -But she is back nonetheless. Just as the twi'lek orders, /Tydirium/ casually swoops low into the landing zone and slows to a hover, slowly rotating in place as its gently lowers itself down onto its assigned pad. "Seat backs in the upright and locked positions, please," the pilot chirps, already shutting the ship down in preparation to leave. Outside, Imperial-occupied Coruscant stands in stark contrast to the Coruscant known and loved by the New Republic. Giant red Imperial banners are hung from buildings, and stormtroopers on patrol are literally everywhere. Customs is not far from their landing pad, however, and one of the lines is blessedly short. -The pack of incognito Marines, to a man.. uh... well, men-- which is to say human males-- troop down the ramp, leaving Wrista to scurry and shove a large hovercrate marked with shipping stamps down the shuttle's ramp. One of the men, sporting an air of impatience, goes so far as to viciously trip the twi, sending her to the ground with a squawk and *completely* counterproductive to the "Hurry up!" he shouts at her. She whimpers a little, scrambles to her feet and re-doubles her shoving to move the crate to customs. -"What a freaking waste," grouses the lead 'mercenary'. He gives Wrista a kick in the rear as she sprawls, moving to the front of the custom's line for importing goods. "I figured she'd be good for at least a few hours of entertainment, but we ended up with the one twi'lek in the galaxy who can't dance." He shakes his head, despairingly. "If I hadn't spent a fortune on her, I would have sold her to a meat packing plant." Draelis shakes his head and spits eloquently. "Anyway. We've got bantha poodoo pate here," he remarks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the crates Wrista is pushing. He eyes the customs inspector. "It's the hottest thing up at the Skyhook right now. Head chef says he kin make a mean meal outta this." -As the group reaches customs, two uniformed gentlemen curtly - but politely - greet the lot as they move forward to begin patting each of the fourteen people down, one by one, with little care given to personal space or the story being relayed by their apparent commander. As one customs official nears Wrista, his lip curls in obvious distaste... but, duty calls, and even she must be checked for contraband. The man manning the desk itself slides his eyes from the twi'lek and over to the cargo container. "I see. Where are you taking this... thing?" he asks in a rich Imperial accent, giving Draelis an expectant look as his comrades continue about their duties. One comes near Draelis to check him, arm included. "The Skyhook, is it?" The official tips his chin at the crate. "We'll need to look inside - I'm sure you understand," he says, clearly not caring whether the group of ruffians does or not. -Draelis shrugs. "Knock yourself out." He shoves Wrista rudely out of the way, then undoes a pair of latches and puts a boot to the lid. It's not bantha poodoo pate. It's just straight bantha excrement. And it's still fragrant. In fact, a few dead fly corpses flutter to the ground with the opening of the container. The stench is so ripely overwelming that's it hard to imagine a living thing created such a terrible, terrible odor. Draelis himself covers his nose with a rag and takes a few prudent steps back. "Theh it is," he says through the handkerchief. "Go nuts." He gestures expansively at the mass of fecal matter. -The other 'mercs' make no effort hiding laughter at the various abuse leveled at the 'slave', and submit easily to the searches, even going so far as to declare a handful of light blasters that no *real* merc would be without. "She can't e'en match a Hutt fer dancin', Boss, but y'gotta admit, the tent-head's good fer a laugh now 'n then," he comments, in the most gratingly-coarse gutterspeech accent he can muster. The secret to smuggling is to find some way to ensure that the customs officer in question just wants to get rid of you quickly. Wrista, meanwhile, submits to the search with an uncomfortable squirm, giving the Imperial who does it a plaintive plea to 'please sir, help--' cut off when a nearby member of the band cuffs her across the back of the head. "Sorry, sir, still breaking the dumb little thing in," he murmurs. -When the lid goes up and reveals the group's cargo, all three officials recoil, one of them choking out a cry of "Emperor's bones!" as he clamps a hand down over his mouth and tries very hard not to breathe. The one at the desk is quick to reach over and shove the container closed again, giving Draelis a very foul look - he obviously wants nothing more to have him arrested, but the man has been nothing but cooperative, and a line has begun to form behind them. "I hope you were paid in advance. I don't know how likely someone is to try cooking it once they've actually smelled it," he says dryly, his voice nasal as he speaks with his nose pinched to avoid the stench. He glances to his compatriots who nod to him, carrying over the declared blasters to be deposited into a safe box under the desk, and he gestures quickly with his hand, grimacing unhappily. "You can go about your business. Move along. Move along!" One down - ten miles to go. -Draelis tosses the lid back onto the crate and makes a swift gesture at Wrista. "All right, let's get this show on the road. And my job ain't to market it. I'm just sellin' it," he says, flashing a lopsided grin at the custom's officer. Out in plain sight is the best place to hide, and the Marines just tango on in to the Imperial Center, pushing about as much poodoo as they just sold the custom's official. It's not until they've closed down a few side alleys and checked- and checked again- to make sure they aren't being pursued that they rally and start to plan their next moves. Draelis turns to Wrista, checking the blaster pistol he now holds before tucking it under his shirt. "Ok, Ipex. What now?" he asks in a low murmur, glancing at the other Marines as they gear up. -"Very nice, gentlemen," Wrista murmurs, as she's handed a foul-smelling sealed plastic bag with her gear in it. "...I didn't even have to pretend to want to knife you all." Her gear, which she starts latching to her belts and the equipment harness under her half-cape, is predominantly utilitarian in nature, with only her ubiquitous shortsword and a servicable Kylan-3 for her shoulder-holster. "The Undercity," the Coruscanti twi'lek answers promptly. "It's dangerous, but even the Empire can't hope to tame the place. We should be able to traverse our way to this workcamp without getting harrassed-- at least, not by Imperials." She nods down the dark alley. "There should be an old industrial complex over that way... around back there's a railway that ducks into the underground. That's probably the quietest way to get down into gang territory." -It pays to have grown up on Coruscant - it makes infiltrating it unseen so much easier. True to the twi'lek's word, the darkened alley leads to an industrial complex, then a railway, and down, down, down into the Coruscant Undercity, which would be bathed in darkness even if it were not so up above. A pack of fourteen can traverse the gang-ridden ruins with little trouble, however, even on foot, largely due to their military training - gang members know military when they see them, and even they know better. Before long, a marine wearing dark-vision goggles jogs up alongside Wrista and lightly takes her arm, pointing off to some point completely bathed in blackness. "We can get up there," he reports quietly. "We should be in the no-fly by now." -Draelis stays practically on top of Wrista, her second shadow- the Marine moves with a collapsed EKX in his hands, a weapon he is markedly proficient with. It's the only weapon he carries- after all, his left arm can do more damage than some good blasters are capable of. -The little twi'lek nods, throwing up her hand for a short halt. "Time for the hard part," Wrista informs them. "We'll head up, see if we can find a vantage we can scout the facility from and figure out our next move," she says. "Keep your eye out for patrols. I don't think COMPNOR had visitors in mind when they built the place." She nods, and follows their point-man on up, climbing nimbly in places. -Much as they did on Kamino, Ipex's marines move silently, scaling the Undercity's trappings with enough ease to make one wonder if they'd all packed climbing gloves. It's a long and difficult climb, but fortune smiles, as the alleyway they come up in shields them completely from view of the simply /massive/ COMPNOR facility about five hundred meters up the street and they emerge just in time to see the retreating tail lights of an armored patrol vehicle passing out of sight. -Draelis acts like a ladder for the last part of the climb- he sinks those heavy talons into the plastcrete and just hangs there, letting the Marines clamber over him. With a quiet machine sound, he levers his whole body upwards and eases over the lip of the climb, shaking out the droid arm. He nudges Wrista and shows her his exposed synthetic hand. In the last few hours, it's darkened to a dull grey color. Teeth flash in a grin and then he's all business again, scanning the area with a multi-spectral lens as Wrista looks with her eyes. He lowers the goggles and taps Wrista's shoulder to get her attention, then with a few quick, businesslike gestures, calls out guards and cameras in the area that he can see from his vantage point. -From there, it's difficult to see much of genuine use. High walls adorned with red Imperial and COMPNOR banners surround the camp, with mixed groups of COMPForce troopers and Stormtroopers patrolling along the streets, at least a pair of each at what appears to be the main entrance. All that one can tell from the alley is that the facility is /highly/ guarded - the specifics are harder to make out. -Wrista trades Draelis' grin back, but with the facility so close, it's very fleeting. The twi'lek's usual battlefeild cheer is-- as is probably expected-- mostly-absent, and she surveys the guarded building. "Can't see anything in this alley..." she muses, and looks up along the wall of the alley. "I hope you gentlemen haven't forgotten your rock-climbing," she muses. they're gonna have to get more height and hope they can see inside better from there. -Draelis looks around, then makes a short gesture at another Marine. He indicates a nearby wall and a brief conversation occurs in complete silence, fingers flickering in the Marine's crude sign language. Eventually he nods and Draelis turns to Wrista. he asks quietly, his droid fingers moving cumbersomely in their attempt to form the words. -While the marines discuss their options, a familiar sound becomes audible in the distance, growing louder - and soon, a trio of Lambda-class shuttles pass directly overheard on their way to the base. Judging from where they slow into hovers and begin to descend, their wings folding up against the craft, the landing pads (at least, the ones that they are using) will likely be in view from the roof of the building that they are standing next to. -Wrista pauses as she hears the shuttle approach, tilting her head up as it passes overhead. Instead of answering, she grabs at her pack. She produces and fires a grapple line instead, letting the noise of the passing shuttles cover the noise of the launcher rod and the dart imbedding in the edge of the building. She tests the line, and gives him a 'who knew?' kind of shrug, then clips a pair of climb assists to the line and starts her way up. -Draelis rolls his eyes expressively, but starts waving the other Marines up the rope behind Ipex. It short order they're all up, and he comes up last, quickly reeling in the cable and offering it to Wrista. he asks with a few short gestures, biting the inside of his cheek in a gesture of bemused irritation. The other Marines are already forming a perimeter around the rooftop, sticking cautiously to both thermal and visual shadows. -From the roof, the facility only looks more impressive. Brightly lit within its protective walls, the massive re-education facility is completely spotless and clean, sterile even in the open air of Coruscant, with at least a hundred uniformed guards visible to the naked eye - there's no telling how many there are on the far side of the facility, nevermind indoors. There is a cluster of about thirty people amassed near the trio of landed shuttles, two in the white coats of the Imperial Security Bureau, each flanked by a pair of COMPForce guards, while the rest wear nondescript drab gray jumpsuits - prisoners. -'Now what?' turns out to be macrobinoculars from the twi'lek's belt. She nods Vengan to follow, and shimmys her way to the edge of the roof to have a better look, covering the polished sensor lens on the front of the binocs so no errant reflections will give her away. Since her hands are busy, her voice pipes up, but a low, fuzzy-sound timbre designed not to carry far. "Well, I can see the shuttles, but no sign of-- wait a minute, it's a prison all right; I can see prisoners and ISB by the shuttles now..." She runs a finger along the controls, zooming for a better view. -Draelis produces a monocular and scans as well, panning in an opposite direction from Wrista. "I have...twenty two prisoners," Draelis murmurs, just as soundlessly. "Two ISB, four COMP effers." He pans his monocular around. "Damn, this place is buttoned up tight," he mutters. "Cameras, guards, sensors... any ideas?" he asks the twi'lek, sliding back down behind the ledge cautiously. -As Wrista's macrobinoculars zoom in on the group, she can make out one familiar face - one of the ISB agents is an attractive young man with a charismatic smile on his face, even as he stands with picture-perfect posture and watches the ramps of the shuttles extend down to allow people to disembark... or, in this case, board. As the prisoners turn to face the shuttles, Wrista can see many more familiar faces. Ten of them in all - cousins, siblings, her mother and father, the head of her family - all of them battered and bruised, split up into two groups and urged onto the shuttles with the rest by the COMPForce troopers. Draelis can see a trio of ISB, each flanked by two troopers of their own, approaching the landing pads at a crisp pace. One for each shuttle. -"None yet," Wrista admits, continuing to peer at the facility. "I suppose it might be too much to ask, but I've yet to see a building *totally* cut-off from all external services," she muses. "Oh-ho. Familiar face down there," she muses, focusing in tighter on the ISB agent.... and then abruptly, she freezes, and her lekku come alive, writhing like angry snakes along her back. She holds the macros for a bit longer, then takes them down, and turns, pulling off her pack so she can dig furiously in it. "We need to find a speeder, NOW," she says, and glances at Draelis. That shuttle would likely fly back this way... "Can you throw straight with that arm yet?" -Draelis grabs Wrista's forearm with his good hand. "Slow down, Wris," he says, voice still very soft. "Let's not get carried away. We're on recon here. This is your dance, but do you want to blow cover now or wait until we're in a better spot?" he asks, glancing from her to the target and back again. "I'm with you, either way. Just think your call through real careful, here," he advises, in a not unfriendly fashion. -Draelis may be in a mood to be cautious, but two of the marines who were with Wrista on Kamino need only hear their CO's words before they grab the cable they climbed up on and leap off the side of the building. The boarding continues without incident. The trio of ISB officers stop for a moment to chat with the young man already present before they exchange formal bows, and the trio split up to board one shuttle each, joined by their escort. -Wrista's reply is a little harsh, broken into crisp, clipped syllables. It's not because she wants to snarkily suggest that Draelis needs things explained in single syllables-- it's actually to keep herself in-control, and it shows. "They are load-ing them on the shut-tles, Ven," she says, and passes him the homing beacon she couldn't figure out why she'd packed. Now she knows. Sort of. "They'll fly back this way. Don't miss. Doesn't matter which shuttle; they're all going the same way. If we can get back to the port fast enough..." -Draelis sets his jaw and there's a flash in his green eyes. He moves to speak and then stops and forces himself to take a deep three second long breath. He's clearly marshalling his emotions, and when his eyes open, he looks fairly calm again. "All right. Here we go." He takes the homing device and primes it, double checking the setting. "Triple deuce on the Kilo band," he tells Wrista. Once she confirms her mark, he backs up and primes the homing device as if he's about to throw a grenade, getting himself set down low and keeping the shuttles in his peripheral vision as he paints his target area with his right hand. There's a breathless few seconds as the shuttles warm up and start to move off. Draelis waits. The first one flies past, a bit too far off target. The next one goes directly in his line of sight and the Marine heaves powerfully with a textbook throw, the beacon sailing to intercept the shuttle's hull. -The beacon catches the hull wrong and goes skittering across its surface, sailing off the other side - where it lands securely with a quiet /snap/ on the hull of the third, beneath one of its unfolding wings. Another patrol on the street goes obliviously on by before two sets of headlights click on a short ways up the street, further away from the prison. -Wrista sets the beacon frequency into her handheld tracker so that they can confirm the beacon-- too much range involved to really trust eyes against a moving target. She studies it for a few seconds, and then gracks a grin. "Throw was good," she announces, and quickly re-packs her back to head for the line back down the building. -The rest of the marines descend the line after Wrista, quickly stepping to one side to let the next man hit the alley in a well-practiced ballet. Without prompting, one peeks out from the edge of the alley to check for any patrols before he waves his hand, and one by one, the begin to make a silent, hurried break for it towards the two sets of headlights, avoiding their light so as not to cast any shadows up the street. -Wrista piles in last, sliding into the front seat. "Starport, go," she orders. "We've one stop to make along the way, so don't break any traffic laws, but don't spare the accelerator." Then she finds Vengan, turning in her seat. "Ven, this changes the plan. I need you to go to Ipex House and get whoever wasn't arrested off the planet. Take... Skot. When someone answers the door, tell them "The Rock gardens are falling, but the Ista flowers are in bloom on Ord Mantell."" She digs in one of her jumpsuit pockets, and flips Skot a sleeve full of credits. "They should be able to cover it, but just in case, that should be plenty. Charter a ship if you have to." And finally, having run out of important things to say, she slams a fist on the dashboard, venting frustration, and finally cuts loose with venomous twi'lekki swearing. In Plain Sight